“You can get him out, right?” Edith asked, tugging at Maryann’s skirt as they walked up the hill. “He looks so sad. You’ve got to, please, please, please!”

“Let go, sweetie.” Maryann removed Edith’s hand and held it as they turned up at the fork in the road. “Let’s get there and see what we can do.”

“But you have to fix him!” Edith squinted up against the brilliant noontime sun to look her in the eye. “You just have to.”

Against such pleading, Maryann had always been helpless to do anything but what Edith wanted, whether that was picking berries by starlight because she said they tasted better or trying to free a cougar that she insisted had been tricked into stone. It had been this way since Edith came into the world and Maryann knew it would be this way until she left the world.

Edith stopped walking, yanking on Maryann’s hand. “There he is! Doesn’t he look sad?”

Maryann shaded her eyes with her free hand. The rock formation hadn’t been there yesterday when she’d gone to the pass to trade goods with the caravan. She frowned. It wasn’t good. Not good at all. Someone mettling with her woods.

“You see him, right?”

“Clear as your nose,” Maryann said with a smile she didn’t feel. “Give me back my hand so I can help him.”

Edith let go as fast as she could and stepped back.

Maryann stepped off the path and walked around the rock formation, the shadows forming the poor beast’s face and haunches and even its tail. She came back to her starting point and laid her hand on the beast. “Please let this work,” she whispered too quiet for Edith to hear.

Edith paced back and forth on the path, her feet kicking up bits of rock, worrying her hands as Maryann worked. Just when both had almost given up hope as the sun sank behind the tallest trees on the mountain, Maryann felt a tremble beneath her hand and watched a pebble fall away from the cat’s head.

“Be careful,” the woman said as she passed me on the trail. “There’s something that speaks through the rock up there. I’m not sure if it can be trusted.”

I raised an eyebrow. She didn’t read like someone who heard voices in the woods, but then, I never was a great judge of character.

She looked back up to where the path jogged behind a grove of pine trees and was lost to the shadows then back at me. She sighed and it mixed with the wind. “Don’t pay me any mind, then, but you’ll see.”

She resumed walking and I lost sight of her around the next bend. Shaking my head, I continued walking up the hill and deeper into the forest.

“Never can tell who is mad and who isn’t by sight,” I said to myself as I raised my hand to shade my eyes from the sun that cut across the path in the wake of a fallen tree.

“Isn’t that the truth?” a voice asked behind me. It made me think of rumbles deep in the earth.

I spun around, but no one else was on the path. “Hello?” I asked, feeling at once silly and anxious for hearing voices.

“Hello, indeed. I’m down here, not up there.”

I looked down, sweeping my eyes over the sides of the path and when they came to rest on the face staring back at me from the rock, I screamed.

Margaret looked up from her dusty boots when a shadow passed over them. She frowned at the incongruous, slabs of concrete still standing in this wasteland of sand and sun. The crossbeam was intact, a rarity even when one did find evidence of ruins jutting up like the broken teeth of some hagfish dragged up from the deep.

She wiped her hand across her forehead, drawing a line of chalky orange dust that looked like a deliberate mark before shielding her eyes from the sun. Squinting at the letters, she tried to remember her lessons from the time before. What did those marks mean? She wasn’t sure anymore. Perhaps the sun had bleached them out of her head. But she dutifully withdrew her book and stub of a pencil she’d recovered from a shack two days before from her pack and copied the writing. Then she slung her pack back on her shoulder and resumed walking, staring at her feet in the dust.

It would be four days before she found anyone who could decipher the letters for her. When told what they meant, she laughed along with the person who thought they were ridiculous–the work of a madman. But at night alone, when the stars came out, Margaret would trace the words in her book and recited what she still loved. And, sometimes, it helped.

Sometimes the world just needs flowers.

My mother used to say that as she clipped flowers from her garden and set them in a vase to give to a neighbor or friend. Her arrangements were always perfect, like her tinctures—beautiful, tailored to the person to whom the gift would be given. In all her years of giving flowers, I don’t think she ever received any in return. Except from my father, he brought her flowers every week from the market, even though they could never compete with her garden.

But that didn’t matter; they were always the most perfect flowers to my mother. Because they were from my father and his love for her made them magic. At least, that’s what I thought when I was young and breathed in their scent and their soft illumination in the night.

Now they were both gone and I arranged flowers in a world that was oblivious to their beauty and their magic.

I looked down at the yellow daisies and peach-yellow roses that I had placed in the vase. It wasn’t as perfect as my mother’s, but I still had hope that one day they’d glow.

“What’s that, Momma?” asked Henry as he pulled on my hand to propel me towards the rusting equipment near the trail.

“It’s from the Old Ones,” I said and felt a chill down my spine, even though I knew there was nothing to fear–not now.

“Really?” He looked on in awe at the rusting heap. It couldn’t fall apart fast enough for me.

“Yes. Have you learned about them in school?”

“No.” He looked up at me. “Who are they?”

A breeze blew shivers through my shawl. I squeezed Henry’s hand. “When we get home, love.”

“Let’s go!” He broke away and began running down the hill towards home.

I took another look at the rust and turned back to home. I pondered what I would tell Henry about the Old Ones when we got home. He was too young yet for all of the truth.

 

I stared down at the design the barista drew into the foam of my cappuccino and said nothing over the lump growing in my throat. My partner looked over my shoulder and I could hear the smile in his voice as he said,

“Isn’t that nice? Three hearts. Must mean we’ll be in love for a long time.” He kissed the top of my head and grabbed his cup of black coffee off the counter. There were no designs in his.

“Yes,” I said. “Lovely.”

We sat by the window and sipped at our drinks. He was unusually talkative or perhaps I was unusually quiet. I didn’t remember half of what he said by the time we finished and walked out of the cafe. We held hands as we walked back to our apartment, only two blocks away.

I watched him sleep that night, unaware of what the three hearts meant. If I was lucky and quick, he’d never know. But then, if I were lucky, I wouldn’t know what three hearts meant. I’d think they were a nice sign, too, but they weren’t. I knew that in my heart.

“I can’t believe you bought that red van,” Denise said as they stopped on the curb beside the van. “And they couldn’t even bring it to your house?” She crossed her arms as if the very sight of the van offended her.

“I like it,” Sharon said with a smile as she pulled out the key from her purse. It looked like a miniature skeleton key she had to get into the basement of the public library.

Denise shook her head. “You really need to grow up. It is so impractical.”

“I know. That’s why I love it.” Sharon unlocked the side door and slid it open with a creak. A butterfly flew out, an incongruous fleck of yellow against the grey sky. “See? It’s magic.” She climbed into the driver’s seat. “Want to ride home with me?”

“No way. That looks like it will rattle us to death.” Denise looked at her watch.

“Your loss,” Sharon said, which caused Denise to snap her head up. She wasn’t used to Sharon ever saying anything negative. Sharon smiled wider. “You’ll miss the magic.” Then she turned over the engine with the skeleton key and the door slammed shut.

As she drove away and Denise lost sight of the red van against the sea of drab cars around the corner, all she heard was the sound of Sharon’s joyous laughter floating back, like a butterfly on the breeze.

 

“That’s a nice looking cat you’ve got there,” Steven said to the innkeeper.

The innkeeper flicked his eyes towards the cat who lounged on the worn, wooden porch outside the office before nodding. The cat didn’t seem to be paying any attention to the two men as he dozed in the sun. “Yeah, just don’t pay attention to what he says to you.”

Steven raised an eyebrow. “Says to me?”

The innkeeper nodded, agreeing with his question. “Yeah, cat says some wild things.”

“Sure. Thanks for the tip.” Steven picked up the key off the counter and turned to leave before he changed his mind about staying here. It was the only place he could afford in this town. The last stop before he’d have to drag himself home and plea for mercy at his parents’ feet. He shook his head and straightened his back as he walked out the office and out onto the porch. His boots made dull thuds against the boards and the cat opened one yellow eye.

His door was opposite where the cat lay. Steven had a soft spot for cats and tried to open the door as quiet as possible to not disturb him. He needn’t have bothered. As soon as the door was open the cat lunged in before Steven could cross the threshold.

“Hey now!” Steven said as much in surprise as annoyance. “You ain’t supposed to be in my room.”

“I can go wherever I want,” said the cat.

Steven sat hard in the chair by the door and shook his head. “Tireder than I thought.”

“You may be tired, but that doesn’t change the fact that we’re talking. My name is Alexander, by the by.” The cat waited until Steven looked up at him before continuing. “Now, it looks like you need a change of fortune and I need someone with opposable thumbs.” The cat walked out the door and glanced back over his shoulder.

“You coming or not?” the cat asked and smiled when Steven stepped onto the porch.

“The flowers are beautiful,” Fanny said as she bent down to touch the nearest blossom. It was orange like the sunset they had watched last evening.

“I don’t see how you can find beauty here,” Dahlia said with a shake of her head as she hugged her arms tightly across her chest.

Fanny stood up with a shrug. “The rows are beautiful, so peaceful. How can you not like them?”

“Because of what they represent.” Dahlia reached out and tugged on her arm. “Let’s go.”

Fanny took one more look at the rows of flowers that stretched to the horizon, gently swooping rows that followed the contours of the hillside and path below. She let Dahlia lead her back into town. As they stepped back onto the sidewalk, they passed a sign that read “Flower Rows of the Dead.” Only Fanny looked back when the breeze wrapped a heady floral scent around them like a tendril trying to lure them to return.

“It is dead, Lila. Nothing is bringing it back.” Steven stood above her, his shadow darkening the barren branches in front of her.

She looked up. With the sun behind him, it was like looking up to a human shape void around which the sun shone. “You don’t know that.”

“Why bother with it. Father can just plant another one.” He turned on his heel, a puff of dust rising and dirtying the side of her skirt.

Lila waited until he was a speck across the dried expanse of the meadow before she responded. “Because Momma and I planted this one.” She turned back to the bush and continued digging in compost around its base, watering it with her tears.

When the sun was at its height in the sky and sweat had washed away the tears from her face, Lila stood. Hands on her hips, she stared at the bush.

“I know you have it in you to survive. You’re like me.” She picked up her tools and trudged back to the house.

That night Lila woke up to the sound of rain and smiled before falling back asleep. And outside, across the awakening meadow, there was a sound of cracking wood and red blossoms exploded on the once skeletal sticks.